


Serpent Drabbles

by ForASecondThereWedWon



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/M, Featuring, Friendship, Multi, Pop Tate's Chocklit Shoppe, Romance, Sweet Pea is always feeling at least 50 percent angsty, miscellaneous Riverdale drabbles, southside serpents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-23 02:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15596322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForASecondThereWedWon/pseuds/ForASecondThereWedWon
Summary: You've tried Bughead Drabbles, Varchie Drabbles, and Falice Drabbles. Now try... SERPENT DRABBLES!A collection of the Serpent-centric drabbles I've previously posted on my Tumblr (forasecondtherewedwon), each based on one or multiple prompts, as requested by my followers. Come for the angst, stay for the total indifference towards social mores!





	1. Water Snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the "Writing Prompts" list, prompt 81: “We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain?”

The rolling echo of another thunderclap had Sweet Pea unsteady on his feet, feeling like Marty McFly blasted backwards by the mother of all amps. He tightened his grip on the plastic bag handles, though they were already digging unforgivingly into his fingers. It felt to him like a giant was advancing on them to fold their world in half like a board game, and what was he doing? Running? No, he was carrying fucking groceries, walking side by side down the quiet Northside street where the Andrews lived… with the Andrews themselves. Any minute, the downpour would begin and he was out here in the open, the tallest of the three men, like some kind of goddamn lightning rod.

Toni had practically forced him to go, pleading and threatening while her girlfriend alternately nodded sweetly and glared at him from over Toni’s shoulder. Apparently, just staying out of the way of their hosts wasn’t a good enough demonstration of Serpent gratitude for Fred Andrews taking them in. Sweet Pea liked things to be fair, didn’t enjoy the feeling of being in somebody’s debt, but when he’d offered to help with the practical task of feeding the Serpents, he’d thought it would mean chipping in grocery money or stealing some out of Jughead’s wallet. (Everybody knew he’d taken Betty to a hotel. The guy had to have a secret stash somewhere.) Instead, these two pro-environment, anti-Sweet-Pea’s-patience hippies had insisted on walking to the grocery store and home again.

And now it was starting to rain.

Sweet Pea angled his head down and clamped his fists differently around the bags in his hands so the food wouldn’t get wet. It wasn’t selfless; he had two cardboard boxes of KD in there that he didn’t want soaked through. Picking up his pace, as he assumed Archie and Fred would be doing as well, he stepped forward and nearly tripped both himself and Archie as he caught the back of the Bulldog’s sneaker with his own.

“Shit,” he jerked out, flicking the wet hair from his eyes with a toss of his head. “What are you doing?”

He was shocked to see that Archie didn’t look mad. Mr. Varsity Football just smiled (smiled!) and nodded towards his father. Blinking as the sky cranked open the faucet all the way, Sweet Pea stared at Fred Andrews, who stood, head tilted back, in the middle of the street. He looked like a future probe victim, immobilized by a sci-fi beam and awaiting the approach of the mothership.

“We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain?” Sweet Pea shouted at the older and far more likable Andrews.

Fred lowered his head and shrugged his shoulders, jostling the bags of food in his hands.

“I was almost killed twice this year,” he offered. _Fair enough_ , Sweet Pea thought, never having been shot even once, let alone twice. “It’s taught me to enjoy things. Archie here has learned to humour me.” A nod for the redheaded wonder. “Maybe you will too, Sweet Pea, while you’re staying with us.”

Sweet Pea rocked his head to the side, not committing to so much as a shrug, let alone a promise to develop a tolerance for Mr. Andrews’ quirks.

The three of them continued down the street together, getting drenched more by the second. After a few minutes, it started to feel kind of nice. The Andrews only had one shower and the line for it in the mornings was stupid-long, so he was due for a wash anyway. The thunder was an awesome sound and Sweet Pea concentrated on the way fat drops of rain were exploding into puddles, making the ground quiver like the cup of water in _Jurassic Park_. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d stayed out in the rain because he wanted to be there. What he _could_ remember was the last time he’d been in it with Archie.

“Hey,” he said, taking a few jogging steps to catch up to where the other guy was walking just behind his father, and giving him a nudge with his elbow. Archie looked sideways at him, suspicious.

“I swear to god, Sweet Pea, if you’re going to make fun of my dad―”

“No, Andrews,” he butted in, sort of offended, despite the fact that what Archie assumed of him was exactly the reputation he’d built for himself. Whoops. “I was just gonna say this reminds me of that other night. You know,” Sweet Pea continued, sort of laughing now and totally ignoring the odd look on Archie’s face, “when we had the big brawl in front of your place until your girlfriend broke it up by firing that gun?”

 _Smack!_ They both ran into the back of Fred Andrews’ wet jacket. Sweet Pea’s socks were flooded as the man stomped a puddle, turning on them.

“WHAT?”


	2. Sweet Pea Stands Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the "Writing Prompts" list, prompt 99: “I don’t care what they said, it doesn’t mean shit!”

As Toni ran between the trailers, tall weeds scratched her legs below the denim shorts she’d made herself from an old pair of jeans. She was so mad. This time, she was going to get as far away as she could, even leave Serpent territory, which was the one place her very unstrict grandfather never allowed her to go alone, though she was eleven now. Forming and changing her plans as fast as the worn-smooth soles of her sneakers pounded the dirt, Toni barrelled out of the uneven grid of trailers that made up her neighbourhood, out into the empty lot beyond.

“TONI!” she heard Sweet Pea yell after her.

 _Crap_ , she thought. While her size was perfect for hide and seek, fishing curiosities out from between the bars of the storm drain, and fitting into small spaces out of which she would jump to scare her friends, Sweet Pea was tall and had the advantage on a straightaway. Of course, Toni ran anyway, but it was seconds before her friend grabbed her upper arm and yanked her to a halt.

“I don’t care what they said,” he told her, gesturing back the way they’d come, “it doesn’t mean shit!”

“You’re not supposed to swear,” she reminded him, chin jutting out as stared him down. “And it _does_ mean shit! It means a lot of shit!” Toni argued, disregarding the rule she’d just set for Sweet Pea.

“There are other places to play,” he insisted. “We could go play basketball at the courts behind the school, or we could―”

“I want to go to the clubhouse,” Toni said firmly, glaring up at him. “This ‘no girls allowed’ thing is garbage!”

“I know that!” Sweet Pea yelled back, his breath smelling like orange Crush when it blew up her nose. His fingers pinched into her arm.

“Even Fangs went along with it,” she added, more quietly, feeling the sting of that heart-shattering betrayal.

“Ah, he’s just being dumb. I’ll smarten him up,” Sweet Pea offered, making a fist Toni knew he would never use really against his best friend.

“I don’t understand,” she complained. “You guys let me in last summer. We were there every day!”

“Yeah,” Sweet Pea snorted, “but that was before you got really pretty!”

Toni’s head jerked back and she stared at him. Instantly, he dropped her arm like there was a big ugly spider crawling on it and looked hard in the other direction.

“You… you think I’m―”

“Yeah, so what?” Sweet Pea said, acting all tough as he half bent down, half raised his knee to tug his sock up.

 _So what?!_ she thought. This was crazy! This was a thousand times worse than hearing Sweet Pea say ‘shit’ or getting kicked out of the clubhouse. It was awful. It would definitely ruin her life! She glanced first at the fading red mark on her arm, then up at her friend’s face. He caught her eye, cast his gaze away like it was going to catch a fish, then sent it back to her.

“You wanna kiss me?” he asked, not sounding tough at all now, more nervous, like when their teacher asked him to read aloud.

“No,” she stated. “Gross!”

But her heart was pounding hard and when Sweet Pea grabbed her by the shoulders, Toni didn’t flinch. He pressed his lips against hers and she didn’t even have to distract herself by thinking that it wasn’t any different from sharing a bottle of Coke, because startlingly, it felt pretty good.

Then he drew back and smiled at her in amazement and Toni got mad at him all over again.

“They listen to you Sweet Pea, even the older kids! You could have made them let me in!”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” he replied, smile slipping away like a drip down a drain. “The clubhouse actually kind of sucks.”

“That’s not the point. You didn’t stand up for me,” she accused.

Toni looked hard into his eyes again and _then_ she started wanting him to kiss her again, which seemed like a good time to run away.

From then on, that day had remained a strong, landmark memory, balanced on a switchblade’s edge between the trials of young friendship and a confusing first kiss. It changed things. The mutual crush between her and Sweet Pea lingered for another year and a half, but his loyalty to her never again wavered.  He was 100% of the reason she could only ever say that she was _more_ into girls, not _only_ into girls. He protected and defended her with his words or his fists whenever she needed him to, which was less and less often as she came into her own as a Serpent. Through their teen years, Sweet Pea was someone she could always count on, whether it was for a supportively-enraged ear to rant to about another local injustice or a good listener to whom she could reveal that she’d kissed Jughead before giving him his tattoo.

Sweet Pea was simply there for her, and it was never again necessary to verbally ask him for anything… until Cheryl proposed.

“Thanks for standing up for me,” Toni told her best friend and best man as he pulled her arm through his.

“No problem,” Sweet Pea whispered, giving her a private grin. “Just don’t try to kiss me; your bride’s watching.”

He nodded up the aisle to where Cheryl was standing, sensational in a flawless white suit, then glanced sideways at Toni.

“You look really pretty,” Sweet Pea said, and they began their walk.


	3. A Shot in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the "Writing Prompts" list, prompt 10: “I might have had a few shots.”; prompt 29: “It must be hard with your sense of direction, never being able to find your way to a decent pickup line.”; and prompt 75: “You fainted, straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

The tall boy in the leather jacket stretched out on the dining room rug opened his eyes and groaned loudly.

“Betty,” Jughead directed. “Switch the lights off.”

She shook her head as she crossed the room and slapped the switch. Now that Sweet Pea wasn’t staring up into the blinding overhead light, he seemed more willing to return to consciousness. He quit groaning.

Betty walked back to lean over Jughead, who was crouched next to his friend. It could have been relief that had Sweet Pea staring up at her boyfriend like that, or surprise, or weighty respect for his gang leader, but she didn’t think so. Before she could consider it further, Sweet Pea spoke.

“Whappened?” he slurred.

Jughead snorted.

“You fainted, straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

“Bullshit,” Sweet Pea argued, closing his eyes against Jughead and his words.

“Oh no you don’t,” Betty spoke up, wedging her socked foot under the boy’s shoulder and prying upwards to jostle him. “You’re not falling asleep here. It’ll scare the hell out of my mom in the morning.”

Alice knew Sweet Pea was here, of course, but she’d be expecting him to sleep in Polly’s bedroom, where he was currently bunking with Jughead. It hadn’t taken long for Fred Andrews’ friends and neighbours to convince him he might’ve overextended himself by taking in an entire gang as unpaying boarders; Alice―not meaning for her advice to be interpreted as an invitation to house Serpents in _her_ home―had ended up sheltering Jughead and Sweet Pea. Cheryl had taken several others, including Toni and Fangs, to whose gentleness she’d become attached since joining the gang as it reminded her of her brother.

Her own fake brother (plus her demented serial killer dad) long gone, Betty had found it was kind of nice having boys in the house again. No amount of time spent with Jughead was ever enough for her, and Sweet Pea had really grown on her over the past few days. He was like… a good friend, or maybe a brother. Or, no, not exactly that.

“Now you tell _me_ what happened,” Jughead probed, offering a hand as Sweet Pea sat up and looked around the darkened room.

Betty and Jughead had been sitting up in the kitchen in their pajamas, just talking. Ideally, they would’ve been able to do so in a shared bed, but they were still living under Alice’s roof, after all. Then Sweet Pea had stumbled in, long after they’d begun assuming he was staying elsewhere for the night.

“I may have had a few shots,” he admitted, waving Jughead off and rising to his feet. Betty eyed him as he wobbled for a second. He eyed her right back in a totally different way.

“No kidding,” she said flatly, ignoring the heat in her face.

“I was talking to Archie,” Sweet Pea went on, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand, “and then Veronica started going on and on about her goddamn business plans. Almost got in a fight,” he noted with a smirk, “when she mentioned trading the Wyrm, so fucking casual. WHERE DOES SHE GET THE NER―”

Jughead muffled the sudden surge in volume by clamping a hand over the taller boy’s mouth. Betty watched the tense look pass between them, fingers gripping the edge of the table. There were no sounds from upstairs, so her mom was probably still sleeping. She stepped into the kitchen to read the time on the microwave. God, almost two in the morning.

“Skip to the part where you’re fine with it,” Jughead suggested, lowering his hand to Sweet Pea’s shoulder when the boy nodded.

“Well, then she―Veronica―said she was going to make some changes to Pop’s, really make it Serpent-friendly. So we drank to that.”

“More than once, I’d guess,” Betty muttered, hopping up onto the island as the boys moved slowly from the dining room to the kitchen―Jughead behind Sweet Pea with a hand on his back in case he toppled again, she assumed.

“You know…” Sweet Pea started. His hand came down on the island right next to her thigh and as he spoke, his fingers slid into the bare skin near the line of her pajama shorts. “Betty,” he tried again, “you know what’s good for that? For drinking too much?”

She cracked, no longer able to be annoyed at his intoxication since, first, he’d lowered his voice and, second, he was giving her a goofy, open-mouthed smile. Betty laughed.

“What’s that, Sweet Pea?”

He leaned heavily into the island at her side. She glanced over at Jughead who had his eyebrows raised in amusement.

“A tall drink of water,” Sweet Pea provided, head falling loosely forward as he stared at her legs.

Betty pinched her lips tightly together and locked eyes with her boyfriend. He shrugged at her. When Sweet Pea’s hand then landed on one of her legs, thumb rubbing back and forth across her skin, she expected Jughead to get possessive and intervene; since his confrontation with Penny and the Ghoulies, he was nothing if not protective. While her boyfriend did keep assessing eyes on her face, he didn’t start swinging or attempt to haul Sweet Pea away. Gaze going from Jughead to the other Serpent, Betty considered that maybe she didn’t want him to. _Don’t be ridiculous_ , she told herself, and lifted Sweet Pea’s hand, replacing it on the countertop after disentangling his fingers from hers when he tried to hold her hand.

“What are you talking about?” she asked with another laugh, trying to play his comment off as a joke, though the look on his face told her something else. “I’m at least half a foot shorter than you.”

“If that’s the way it’s gonna be,” he said in a singsong that was both defensive and nonsensical, “then I’m gonna get some fresh air.”

With that, Sweet Pea turned, opened a cupboard drawer and walked smack into it, apparently thinking it was the back door.

“Why do I never have my camera when these things happen?” Jughead heartlessly complained.

Betty was about to chastise him for his harshness, until he stepped close to Sweet Pea to check for damage. His hands weren’t much shier on Sweet Pea than they were on Betty, she thought.

“It must be hard with your sense of direction,” her boyfriend pondered aloud, feeling Sweet Pea’s forehead until he winced, “never being able to find your way to a decent pickup line.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Sweet Pea disputed gruffly.

“I was embarrassed for you,” Jughead insisted. From the island, Betty smiled to herself.

“Oh yeah? Then guess who gets to stay up and practice with me?”

Jughead stiffened.

“That didn’t sound as innocent as you probably meant it to,” he pointed out.

“I know what I said,” Sweet Pea shot back, grabbing the front of Jughead’s t-shirt.

Betty sprung down and got between them. With a palm on each boy’s chest, she could feel their hearts banging away like boxers, separated but still throwing hits. The violent tension dissolved in seconds, but a new sort of tension formed, freezing the trio in place like ice cubes hardening in a tray. For a moment, glancing from blues eyes to brown, it terrified her that they were both giving her the same look.

“Why don’t I get you a real drink of water?” Betty offered hurriedly, backing towards the sink.

“Great,” Jughead affirmed, similarly shifting to flee the kitchen. “And I’ll check on the painkiller situation.”

“Hey,” Sweet Pea tossed out, resting his elbows comfortably on the counter and glancing from Betty to Jughead, “whatever you guys want to share.”

Betty turned to the sink and jerked the tap on, fighting to keep herself from plunging her hot face into the gush of cold water. If she had to resist any greater urge that night, Betty had a feeling she was going to be in trouble.


	4. Topping Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the "Writing Prompts" list, prompt 61: “If you go anywhere near them, you’ll have to deal with me!” and prompt 98: “Hold me back!”
> 
> Pairing: Sweet Pea/Reader

“Why didn’t you get more meat toppings?” Sweet Pea complains, stretching the length of the couch to jam his clammy feet under your legs.

You turn to glare at him for being irritating on purpose. It’s hot today― _too_ hot for the childishness you sometimes find endearing. You grab him by the shins and shove his legs aside, reclaiming the couch cushion as your own. Across the coffee table, Toni gives you a look that tells you not to bother, that your boyfriend’s behaviour is going to get worse before it gets before. You know this, but you can be just as tough to swallow as him when you want to be.

“Because it’s _my_ pizza. I have my own,” you remind him, “you have yours, and Toni and Fangs have one to share because they can actually manage to agree.”

“Yeah,” he persists, foot creeping towards you again, “but why do you need your own pizza? I’ve never seen you put away more than four slices in a sitting.”

You sigh, lifting the hair away from the back of your neck. Your fingers are probably greasy from the fast food pizza these jokers made you pick up for lunch, but it’s fine. You need a shower anyway.

“They’re called _leftovers_ , Sweety,” you snark back, using the nickname he hates to hear in company, but doesn’t mind at all when you’re alone.

“They won’t taste as good when you reheat them,” he warns, rubbing his toes along your thigh. “Besides, your microwave is super temperamental. You could fry a gremlin in there.”

You glance over at Toni and Fangs to see if anyone else wants to berate your poor microwave. So maybe you fixed it with duct tape one time when you took it apart then couldn’t find a screw when you were putting it back together. It has character now. Lucky for your friends, they’re chowing down on pizza, mouths too full to comment―probably on purpose.

“Then I’ll eat the pizza cold,” you counter, “and save the microwave to fry your head. How does that sound?”

“Even more like science fiction than the gremlin,” he says with a snort, moving his foot to dig his toes into your side. You jerk slightly, ticklish, but refuse to laugh. Sweet Pea seems unsatisfied, which you know to be his most dangerous mood. “I think I’ll have a slice of your pizza,” he declares with a decisive, _why the hell not?_ nod of his head.

A second ago, you didn’t want to be touched, didn’t want to move, but now you feel irate energy rising in you, making your bare toes dig into the scratchy, cheap carpet that lines the floor of the entire trailer.

“Hold me back!” you hiss at Toni.

Eyes fixed on Sweet Pea, you don’t look at her, but you know she’ll get the message. In this group, Toni’s the only one who ever has or ever will try to stop you from fighting or taking some other reckless action. Sweet Pea does the exact opposite and Fangs is too loyal to him to treat you in any way that would be directly at odds with his best friend’s _modus operandi_.

“I dunno, Y/N,” she starts in a sluggish voice, forcing you to glance over to see her contemplating the pizza crust dangling between her fingers, “I kinda think he deserves it this time.”

“Hey!” Sweet Pea interjects, propping himself up on the couch. “I haven’t even done anything yet!

“But you will,” you point out, mouth tightening. “You always do.”

“Would you let me starve?” he shoots back, swinging his feet to the floor.

“You’ve had like six slices already!”

“Seven,” he corrects you with an open-mouthed grin. “But not from your pizza. I think it has potential, once I’ve flicked off the nastier toppings.”

“You go anywhere near them, you’ll have to deal with me!”

Your eyes lock with his like the two of you are a mechanically perfect fit. Fucking made for each other. He’s quick to get to his feet, you’ll give him that, but before Sweet Pea can take a single step towards the pizza, you’ve dived sideways at him, catching him around the waist. He’s solid, and it’s possible that your cheek will be a little swollen where it clipped his hip, but you’ve got him.

Now, your mutual stubbornness kicks in, neither of you willing to concede.

Sweet Pea decides to walk towards the pizza anyway, deadweight or no, and you’re dragged off the couch, getting your knees under you so they’re the only skin to be rug burned. You change your grip, grabbing the waist of his jeans with one hand (the idiot never wears shorts) and attempting to pinch the back of his knee with the other. It’s no good, the denim’s too impervious and you release your captive, thumping to the floor.

“Watch her!” Sweet Pea shouts at Fangs, a laugh in the back of his throat until you throw yourself after him, scrambling to hang onto his shoulders and get your legs around his waist in an unwelcome piggyback.

This time, you take him down, and victory is as sweet as his name.

“Ugh,” your boyfriend groans as he allows himself to be flattened, face down, on the floor, you sitting in the center of his back because you know he’s strong enough to take the weight. “God fucking _dammit_ , Fangs!”

You roll your eyes at the fact that he’s more willing to blame his friend than accept that he was felled by you.

“Well what did you want me to do?” Fangs asks from the other couch, waving the crutch he had propped against the side. He’s almost better, but the heat wave has been a real drag on his energy. “Knock her out?”

Sweet Pea manages to turn his head enough to catch your eye. You shake your head no.

“She’s already a knockout,” he states, then shuffles around. It feels like trying to balance on a rolling log while he does it, but once he gets on his back, with you still perched on top of him, it’s a decided improvement.

“Flattery will not win you a slice of my pizza,” you inform him, starting to smile.

“No? Then what will it get me?” His hands come up to grab your hips.

“OK,” Toni says loudly, making you look away from your boyfriend’s lips. She’s quickly rising from the couch and assembling everyone’s used plates in a hasty stack. “Let’s get out of here before things get gross,” Toni suggests to Fangs, closing their box of pizza to take with them.

“You guys suck,” is Fangs’s parting shot. “So much for the pizza party.”

“Oh, good riddance to the pizza party!” Sweet Pea yells at their backs as the trailer door bangs shut. He looks up at you, eyes heating admittedly better than your tragic little microwave. “It’s time for the pizza _after_ party.”


	5. The (Plus) One Hit Wonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the "Writing Prompts" list, prompt 23: “Just pretend to be my date.” and prompt 60: “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to seduce me.”

_Oh god_ , you think, cringing back into the wall as your eyes sweep the room. Stepping on a discarded soda can makes you jump like it’s a land mine. The place is packed; on sofas, in doorways, sitting on the stairs, pouring drinks in the kitchen, people are everywhere―your peers in age if not in acquaintance. This suburban house party makes you shifty, squirrely, and needy for the bright lights of home.

It didn’t seem so threatening earlier, when you were chatting in the living room with your mom, Mary, and Mr. Andrews, then hanging out drinking lemonade in their backyard. Mary and your mom have been friends for ages, back in Chicago where you live. They met volunteering, which is something your mom does to make the large city feel a little more like a community, and which Mary claims to do because it makes her feel less like a lawyer. Meaning human. Lawyer jokes, in your opinion, expired sometime before the turn of the 21st century, but Mary makes them tolerable.

Of course, you would never have started being so much in Mary’s company if not for her son. Last summer, he came to stay with his mom over March Break. You met and it was… something… at first sight. Before you could tell if the thing between you and the easygoing redhead with the earnest smile would turn into more than your mom going, “Hey, Y/N! Why don’t you and Archie check out the aquarium/the museum/the art gallery/the park today?” (you playing the part of prospective love interest/tour guide), he was on a bus back to Riverdale. When he returned for the sliver of time between end of exams and Independence Day, the two of you did a little less sightseeing and a little more smooching, yet the chemistry just wasn’t there.

Nope, no fireworks in time for the 4th of July, just plenty of lingering weirdness like the smell of yesterday’s dinner that the distance between Chicago and Riverdale allowed you not to face. Until your mom decided to tag along with Mary when she headed to her hometown for a visit. A real community! A diner! A town hall! A post office! You accepted the inevitability of imminent travel plans, crossing your fingers that Archie would somehow miraculously not be around to bump into.

Except that Mary and your mom decided to make their own plans and leave you to attend Archie’s party (promised to be very responsibly controlled, despite the absence of Mr. Andrews). And now Archie’s over there in the other room and you very much don’t want to look like the pathetic child of his mom’s best friend, dumped on him for the evening. The fact that it’s been a year since you dumped _him_ is beside the point. You need a human life raft, or something large to hide behind.

The front door―opening and closing so often since you arrived that you think the Andrews should consider putting in a revolving door―flies inward yet again and the answer to your desperate party prayers walks through it. Who knows if he’d float, but he’s definitely big enough to conceal you, between the height and the bulky leather jacket he wears unzipped over a black t-shirt.

“Perfect,” you mutter to yourself, eyes going side to side to check that you have not just become the weird muttering girl on top of the pathetic child of Archie’s mom’s best friend. Etc. etc. Your real and imagined humiliation ends here and now!

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Obstructing starts to follow the friends he came in with through to the other room, so you, desperate, grab his sleeve as he passes and don’t let go. You are bold. You are determined. You are… possibly acting like a badly behaved Jack Russell, with this clamping onto and tugging of the sleeve, but hey, you seem to have gained your unwitting plus one’s attention. He stops while his pals go on ahead, looking after them.

“It’s cool, Northsider,” he says, barely glancing at you. “Everybody’s friends now, remember? Do you need to check my invitation?” The guy snorts and looks at you again. Starts to look away, and looks harder. “You don’t go to Riverdale High.”

“I’m not exactly on the bus route. Chicago,” you explain. He shrugs like he’ll allow it, which might piss you off if it weren’t so confusing a response. You introduce yourselves, but your focus is elsewhere.

The guy is doing his job as a barrier so well, not that he has any idea, that you’ve lost sight of Archie. For the first time all night, you willingly move away from the wall and peer around. Shit, he’s heading in your direction, giving and receiving backslaps like life’s just one big football game. You remember your surroundings. Small town. Student athletes. You reassess and mentally dial back the prejudice. Just not enough that you’re suddenly feeling the need to actively be friendly to the host.

“You just escape prison or something?” the Great Wall of Leather asks you. “You’re acting a little… shifty.”

“If that helps you develop a backstory for our relationship, sure,” you fire back, panicking as Archie gets closer. You grab the guy’s hand. “Just pretend to be my date.”

“Uh, no.”

He begins to untangle his fingers from yours and you look down, noticing the large ring he’s wearing. This ring says ‘bite me,’ ‘fuck you,’ and ‘boy oh boy will this leave a mark if you make me want to punch you.’ With Archie on his way over, evidently undeterred by the handhold you’re struggling to maintain, you decide to gamble.

“So are you, like, really good friends with Archie Andrews?”

The guy looks at you like you just spit in his (hypothetical future) drink.

“No.”

“Great,” you assure him with a slap to his chest, quickly glancing sideways. “Then you can stick around for a sec and help me not interact with him.”

You hear Archie call your name in greeting, but you’re catching your ‘date’ by the dog tags around his neck and yanking him down into a kiss. Your eyes are squeezed shut and you throw your arm around the back of the guy’s neck (holy crap, he’s tall) to make it look convincing. You don’t hear your name again, though you listen carefully, like counting the seconds between rolling thunder claps. While you’re working hard to determine whether the situation has been resolved, Mr. Feisty with the dog tags and the tough-guy ring starts kissing you _for real_ , fingers searching for the shape of your back through your denim jacket.

Roughly, you pull away, touching your lips to make sure he didn’t keep them over there with him. _That was_ , you think, feeling lightheaded, _now_ that _was a kiss_.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to seduce me,” he concludes, curling his lower lip into his mouth as his tongue runs over it.

“I…” you attempt to protest, your tongue tying itself up like it’s trying to make a suggestion for a second lip-lock. “You… _you_ kissed _me_!”

“Uh, my brain and the marks you probably left on the back of my neck from pulling me down like that both say, ‘bullshit!’” he argues.

“Yeah,” you debate, poking a finger into his chest, “but I just kissed you to keep Archie away, you _kissed me_ kissed me.”

“I did notice a difference,” he concedes.

“Good,” you shoot back, annoyed.

“The difference being the kissing’s better when I’m in control.”

“ _What?!_ ” You spread your hands, trying to get this idiot to understand. “No-no-nuh-nuh-no. The only purpose of the kiss was to repel Archie. The kiss was mosquito spray. The kiss was a mouse trap.”

“Mouse traps _attract_ mice.”

“Well, you’re confusing me! I’m screwing up my metaphors!”

He’s smiling down at you and you’re blushing and telling yourself it’s anger, but it’s not.

“Come meet the Serpents,” he invites, nodding towards the kitchen. You narrow your eyes.

“Is there some sort of subliminal phallic messaging there?”

He snorts and throws an arm around your shoulders.

“It’s a gang.”

“You’re in a gang?”

“Yep,” he says―with disturbing casualness, in your opinion―as he steers you towards these ‘Serpents,’ “and _you’re_ my date.”


	6. Hot Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the "Writing Prompts" list, prompt 44: “I don’t know why I’m crying.” and prompt 30: “Can I sit here? The other tables are full.”
> 
> Pairing: Sweet Pea/Reader

The floor beneath your feet is not the puke-y beige linoleum of the Riverdale High cafeteria, but the uneven, sun-bleached, cobbled steps of a struggling Greek hotel. The outfit you wear is not the standard t-shirt and jeans you’ve more or less been donning since September, but the result of a stylish 1962 makeover or a promotion to the ranks of the cardigan-clad Pink Ladies. The noise in your suffering ears emanates not from a roomful of your fellow high schoolers, but from the raucous backstage of the Palais Garnier, or a besieged Parisian barricade, or maybe a rowdy Chicago bar, minutes before Roxie and Velma take the stage.

You stare at the uninventive sandwich in your hand, swashed a little on one side from riding in your backpack with your History binder. Nope, you’re definitely still toiling your way through Tuesday.

Existing somewhere between reality and the land of musical make-believe is the bare fact that there isn’t a free seat in the house―great news in a theatre, total shit when your teacher lets you out of class late and all you want to do is park your butt and eat lunch.

Of course, you realize, eyes skimming just above the heads of your academic friends and foes so as not to catch anyone’s gaze and read it in how pathetic you appear standing here clutching the world’s saddest sandwich, there is one spot you could sit. One spot you haven’t dared to sit, though it’s almost always open.

Now you find that you are glancing around, taking in the sights, so your sudden arrival at the Serpent Table (a near-official, read-it-in-capitals-in-your-mind type thing) may seem like the result of a hapless wander rather than the intention of desperation. _Cafeteria mural’s flaking_ , you observe to yourself, studying the wall harder than most ever would or ever have. _Studying up for the art test on 20 th Century American photographers, I see_, you note, spotting a blurb and accompanying photo of Diane Arbus over the shoulder of a classmate. _BLT, huh? What, you think you’re better than me?_ You swerve around the sandwich snob before the urge to tear your own sandwich bag open with your bare hands and use it to smother the offender can overwhelm you.

And here you are. You stand silent, like one of those rare mannequins you sometimes see dressed in an ensemble that _doesn’t_ appear to represent the fashion sense of an alien newcomer to the planet trying to blend in. You clear your throat.

“I see ya,” says the reason people avoid this table. He doesn’t look up at you and you feel affronted, annoyed, avoided, ashamed.

“Can I sit here,” you ask, though it comes out as a flat demand. For some reason, your voice is making it sound like you’ve asked the question over and over, receiving nothing but denial.

You brush your hair back from your face, if only to offer one of your hands a task alternate to sandwich holding.

“Maybe,” he says, biting an apple and focusing on the textbook he has open in front of him.

“What, are you saving someone a seat?” you snap, feeling the attitude click into place like the shoved down lever of a toaster. Burn, baby, burn.

He―the guy―the Serpent―Sweet Pea, looks up at you like you’re out of your freaking mind. Which is about the same moment you’re able to remind yourself that this is not a role, you are not on a stage, and there is no script to offer you that peaceful, predictable assurance of knowing what kind of dialogue comes next.

You drop the stiff shoulders and what you believe to be aggressive look in your eye (which is probably closer to profound, horrified backpedalling) and feel a little bad. Serpent or not, maybe the guy’s lonely. You know who his friends are and where they’re currently sitting, Toni with Cheryl and Fangs with Kevin.

Sweet Pea’s looking up at you and you share just enough classes with him to know how unlikely it is that he’s about to willingly lead off a conversation. You sigh and muster your default niceness. Maybe it’s as unoriginal as your t-shirt and jeans, but it’s you and it’s real.

“Can I sit here?” you inquire. “The other tables are full.”

You watch his tongue slide around his teeth, probably freeing a rogue piece of apple skin. So maybe the reason you avoid this table isn’t the same as everyone else’s.

“Yep.”

“Is that permission to sit or an acknowledgement of the cafeteria indeed being packed to capacity?” You’re trying to understand him, really you are, but his dark eyes are frustratingly indecipherable, making you feel like you’ve wandered into a carnival’s house of mirrors. Disoriented and struggling to find your way back out.

“Sit,” he insists, and kicks out the chair across from him.

Honestly, it’s more invitation than you’d expected to get, so you do like he says. Sweet Pea goes back to the crunching of the apple/reading of the textbook routine―a real thrilling one-two―and you eat your sandwich and ignore the folded, stapled papers you’ve laid on the table.

By the time you’re done and mostly but not totally full (in that way that you’re feeling you may not outgrow until your 20’s), with your cheek leaning hard on your fist, you have started to concentrate on the papers―just not reading them. You stare and wonder if you could levitate them with your mind. You wonder if, were you in possession of a magnifying glass, you could burn these pages like ants under the unnaturally harsh glare of cafeteria lighting.

In fact, you are concentrating so well that you miss the cessation of the apple crunching and the subtle but shudder-inducing sound of slick textbook pages a-flippin’.

“What’s wrong with you? You look like hell,” Sweet Pea remarks.

Without raising your head, you let your eyes move to his face. Disarmingly, you find its expression reads as inquisitive, not mocking as his words would suggest.

“I’m struggling,” you say. Privately, in your head, you congratulate yourself for confusing yourself. What did you mean, you wonder, to shut down a foray into casual socialization or to roll out the welcome mat between him and your troubles?

“With what?” Immediately, a hand with a ring for which you believe the term ‘statement jewellery’ was specifically designed reaches out and taps your papers.

You narrow your eyes and assess his face, possibly, probably, definitely long enough to weird him out. Because you don’t know what the hell else to do, you sigh.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” you confess. You’ve lowered your voice and he’s leaned in to hear you, which is not an unpleasant progression as far as you’re concerned. He smells like the apple he just ate and, uh, you should quit staring at his lips.

“Not _here_ ,” you say, gesturing circularly at your tear-free face. “ _Here_.” You lift your drama class script from the table and give it a punishing smack with the back of your hand.

“What’s this?”

You turn sullen. Sweet Pea gives you a stern look. His hand beckons for the pages and, defeated, you hand them over.

“A play?”

You nod, rubbing your hand along your cheek like that can hold off the blush. Pretty ridiculous how being on stage in front of people doesn’t scare you, but telling anyone about it does.

“Look at this,” you complain, reaching over the page he has turned to (because the lines you highlighted yourself clearly show through, drawing his attention) and point from memory at where your monologue begins.

He meets your gaze over the top of the script, then suddenly he is rising, coming around the table, and sitting down next to you, scraping the chair to be nearer to your side. Your heartrate has a lot to say about this.

“I’m gonna need more information than that,” Sweet Pea informs you, handing you the script and linking his fingers, exposed forearms resting on the table even as the rolled up sleeve of his shirt brushes your arm.

“Aren’t you doing homework or studying or something?” You gesture vaguely to his abandoned textbook. _Where do textbooks end up_ , you wonder. Then, _Has he written his name inside the front cover? What does his handwriting look like?_

“You would not believe the amount of homework I have _not_ done and still managed to look happier than you do right now.”

You snort out a breath. Sounds about right.

“The problem,” you explain, deciding to get on with it while trying to look more at the page in front of you than at Sweet Pea’s attractive brown eyes, “is that it’s a student-run production for class, meaning that a student is directing it. The director hasn’t clarified any of my character’s motivations and I don’t know how I’m going to pull it off.”

It’s a crisis of epic proportions, as far as you’re concerned. Musical theatre is what makes sense to you. It’s easy to comprehend and access those emotions. You don’t believe a person alive could sing Fantine’s lament to broken dreams and not cry, or fail to laugh as Tanya baits and teases a much younger man. Theatre without the music―that external ebb and swell―to guide you leaves you feeling lost. Not that you’re quite ready to put all _that_ into words for this near-stranger.

Sweet Pea doesn’t say anything, forcing you to look at him. With a shrug and a smirk that becomes a grin, he props an elbow on the table and slides it out, moving into your space.

“You’ve got this.”

Your eyebrows raise.

“What makes you think that?”

“Because of what you said. You said,” he lays a finger to your lips before you can interrupt, “‘I’m going to pull it off.’”

The bell rings above and around you, but it’s kind of surreal because you’re just staring at this guy who has totally surprised you. He gets up and reaches over to snap his textbook shut and pull it over to himself.

“If you’re still worried, hit me up for a good luck kiss,” he suggests, heading for the door. “SAME TABLE EVERY DAY,” Sweet Pea shouts back over his shoulder.

You laugh to yourself before realizing you’re going to be late if you don’t get a move on. Whatever else he did, that Serpent certainly unsettled something in you. Maybe that’s exactly what you needed, for more than just the play.


	7. Classic Float

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the "Writing Prompts" list, prompt 62: “It’s okay to cry…”; prompt 37: “Do you think they could have loved me?”; and prompt 96: “Here, let me.”
> 
> Pairing: Sweet Pea/Veronica (SweetVee)

If she was still crying in five minutes, he would go over. Sweet Pea went back to his root beer float, prodding the dissolving lump of vanilla ice cream with a straw. He snuck another look. Veronica was still standing there, in the doorway to the kitchen with her hand gracefully concealing her eyes. As if anybody who knew what pain looked like wouldn’t be able to tell she was weeping her heart out.

Ok, two minutes. In two minutes, if she was still crying, he would check on her. Not really check on her, just… check on her. No big deal. He was here, she was here. The rest of the diner was empty because the new owner (also Veronica) had started playing with extended hours and now nobody knew which nights the place was open late. Such a mess. Sweet Pea’s foot started bouncing restlessly.

Fine, thirty seconds, not because he gave a single, lonesome little fuck, but because it was distracting. She had turned away, but he could tell from her posture that she was unhappy. It was either console the girl or forge a complaint someplace and get the whole business shut down. Nobody could eat like this.

 _Goddammit_ , he thought, shoving out of the booth where he’d been sitting alone. Veronica was looking so beautiful tonight, the sadness skewing her somehow, like a breathtaking painting hung crooked. As if she were such a piece of art, Sweet Pea approached her cautiously so that it wouldn’t look like he was the one who’d fumbled the masterpiece.

He yanked a fistful of napkins from the carousel on the counter.

“Here,” he said, coming behind her and placing one hand on her shoulder while he lifted the clump of napkins to her face, “let me.”

Clearly startled, Veronica grabbed his wrist―grabbed it painfully in fact, but practice had taught Sweet Pea not wince at anything less damaging than a broken arm―and jerked her head around to look up at him. Boy, she wasn’t very tall up close; he’d never have guessed, from the way she marched through the halls of his adoptive school.

“What’s this?” she asked sarcastically, dark eyes deepening with unreadability. “Chloroform?”

Sweet Pea rolled his eyes. What a bitch. Why was he bothering again? Oh yeah, so he could drink his root beer in peace.

“Nah, I left that in my other jacket,” he joked dryly, patting his Serpent skin one-handed as if he ever wore anything else.

“A simple smothering then?” She stared at the hand still on her shoulder. “Looks like one of those would do the job without napkins.”

The smile was harder to fight back than the wince had been. He shifted closer, still holding the napkins aloft.

“Listen, Lodge, if you start talking about the size of my body parts, it’s gonna be hard for me to keep focused on the reason I came over here.”

“Speaking of things that are hard for you,” Veronica immediately replied, tossing him a look from under long lashes, “is that a switchblade in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

“Find out for yourself,” Sweet Pea challenged, holding his hands up and away to put himself in frisking stance as she turned towards him.

She crossed her arms, looking unimpressed, which was great actually, because it gave him another kick at the can that was Veronica Lodge’s secret and most tragic feelings.

“Why were you crying?”

“I wasn’t,” she boldly asserted, stiffening her spine.

Sweet Pea groaned in frustration and swiped a napkin across the girl’s cheek before she could stop him, then flipped it to show her the proof of her tears.

“Liar.”

“Don’t… tell anyone,” she requested in a rushed whisper, grabbing his wrist again. He raised an eyebrow. “I’m serious. I don’t want people to worry.”

“If _people_ were worried, then _people_ would be here with you right now,” he countered, leaning into his implication as heavily as he was leaning into the door frame, his entire posture becoming about Veronica. She stared fiercely into his eyes, but it didn’t scare him. It was like looking in a mirror. “It’s okay to cry…” he finally started, venturing tentatively into the comforting thing.

Maybe it was an inclination Sweet Pea had more often than he showed, this desire to help people and make them feel better. Not a big selling point for a Serpent though. In private, he’d cried all night after Fangs had been shot because he hadn’t been able to prevent it.

Veronica’s face took on a sudden vulnerability, softening like the ground after a rain.

“I need your shirt,” she demanded, gripping the fabric of his over-worn, over-washed Aerosmith T.

“Why?” His heart was thumping away with her hanging onto him like that.

“Because it looks softer than those napkins.”

And then she was drying her eyes against his chest while Sweet Pea wondered if hugging her would make it weird. Right away, he realized it was already weird, so he laid a hand between Veronica’s shoulder blades and just kind of pressed her close without wrapping her up in his arms. She smelled nice in an expensive way, like he’d always figured the cars he drooled over in action movies would smell, but better. More sweet. More intimate. More _lady_.

“It’s this business venture,” she stepped back and explained without him having to ask. “The speakeasy.” She pulled back and focused her eyes on the damp patch Sweet Pea could feel against his skin. “I’ve done everything completely wrong, come in totally impulsive and underprepared, underqualified, under-experienced, and I’m going to fuck it up, and he probably knew that―my father,” she clarified with a quick look up to Sweet Pea’s face, “when we made this deal. He knew I would fail, he’s always known, and he just waited to give me the opportunity when it would least influence _his_ life, when he could distance himself from me like I was one of the bad investments he slips free of at the last second, before it could do him any harm, before even a trace of it could touch him. Turns out, my mother’s exactly the same.”

Veronica let out a gasping, unruly sob, even as her finger flicked beneath her eye in a mechanically precise line.

“Do you think,” she hiccupped, sounding to Sweet Pea affronted, brave, and exposed all at once, “they could have loved me?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing her arm as his eyebrows scrunched together in sympathy. “They just sucked at it.”

Veronica turned her head swiftly to the side to let out a laugh that was the least inhibited noise he’d ever heard her make. She touched the napkin to her eyes, her nose.

“Um,” Veronica glanced down at her feet, maybe their feet, since he was still standing close, “what were you doing before I ruined your night?”

She looked up with a growing smile.

“Wasting the best opportunity I’ve had yet to talk to the girl I’ve had a crush on for ages,” Sweet Pea bluntly revealed. Saying it was the easy part. The challenge had been walking over here.

Her smile ebbed.

“Archie―”

“Couldn’t make it tonight, I see.”

And they left it at that, Sweet Pea not forcing the issue, instead simply offering her a thoughtful shrug and sauntering back to his forlorn booth. He considered it to be totally on Veronica when her heels came clicking after him.


End file.
